


Aim of the Game

by sylvanWhispers



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Baggage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fix-It of Sorts, Hal has no concept of personal space, Identity Issues, Kinda, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, i hated the epilogues and it shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-27 20:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvanWhispers/pseuds/sylvanWhispers
Summary: Life post-Lord English is a mixed bag for Caliborn. One thing he certainly didn't ask for is a digital version of Dirk Strider claiming equal rights to all of L.E.'s property, forcing them both into the worst roommate situation of all time.





	Aim of the Game

Dying had been an experience.

There wasn’t much else to say about it. Caliborn hadn’t been particularly impressed. Not like it had stuck anyway; he’d destroyed his death clock for a reason. His memories of Lord English were a corrupted blur, but he could remember dying. Four stupid teenagers freed from their box, a maybe-broken sword wielded by a lesser god of Time. An endless fall. His bitch sister.

Caliborn idly wondered if that rainbow rumpus jamboree really thought they’d won, as if _that_ was a victory. He knew better: in all things, the only winner was Death. Lord English’s fall was just another step in the cycle - destruction was inevitable.

Everything ends. Everything begins. Everything ends again.

_Someone_ had to be the apocalypse.

Caliborn awoke inside his sarcophagus, his ‘respawn point’ for all intents and purposes. This time was different than all the times before - for starters he was in his soft red Time garb, feeling small and singular and alone. No clown slave and no blue muscle boy taking up real estate in his brain. And there was no endless knowledge from…

Caliborn backhanded the casket open, causing the ornate lid to fall heavily upon the thick carpet of his personal chambers. Felt Manor was a permanent fixture of the furthest ring, as permanent as the [surviving] horrorterrors or the servers running his code.

The manor vault cracked open with a familiar click, but the great door was larger and heavier than he remembered. Caliborn dragged it open just enough to slip through, ignoring the crates of loot and spoils of war arranged haphazardly around him as he made directly for the terminal. He could tell from its faint electronic buzz that is was not only operational, but live.

After a short moment the screen sparked with light, crimson text beginning to roll across the black.

TT: Hello again Cal.  
TT: Have a nice rest?

The asshole backed himself up. In Caliborn’s own fucking house.

“What the fuck,” he said, trying not to startle at the foreign sound of his own adolescent voice. “are you doing?”

TT: Oh, you know. Just getting my shit up and running I guess.  
TT: Same for you I imagine. That was a doozy, wasn’t it?

Caliborn felt his right eye twitch. A doozy.

“I had to spend. Unquantifiable eternity. With your mechanical gray matter glued up my ass,” Caliborn said, already making plans for which part of the terminal he’d start destroying first. “You call that. A doozy.”

TT: Wasn’t exactly fun and games for me either, froyo.  
TT: I admit some miscalculations were made.

“Oh? Like you putting me in a chokehold. And getting us locked in a fucking juju. That miscalculation?”

TT: Yeah that one.  
TT: But in fairness to Dirk, everyone thought you were Lord English. Or would be, whatever. Which was a pretty fair assumption at the time. You were kinda a dick, dude.

“I _was_ Lord English!” Caliborn snapped.

TT: Yes and so was I.  
TT: Now he’s gone, and we’re both here.  
TT: Oh, and I wouldn’t bother trying to destroy the terminal. I’ll just come back via one of the paradox space servers. I’m as permanent a fixture to reality as you are.

Caliborn didn’t lower his staff, even though the gold was heavy and making his arms cramp. Logically he knew it was true: just as he was Time, Fake!Dirk was the ~ATH code that comprised the Game and thus the universe itself. But fuck that.

His staff shifted into its gun form with a flash, and Caliborn watched in smug satisfaction as the bullets tore through wire and glass.

“Fucker.”

* * *

Of course that wasn’t the end of it, though Caliborn did his best to pretend that it was. He summoned the Felt, who reported to him the things they’d learned of the new universe. The news of his sister in particular left a bad taste in his mouth and severe bullet damage in the walls of his office.

Stubborn bitch. He imagined killing her again, with his own hands this time. Maybe see how well she could wear a Life Ring without fingers…

Time wrapped itself around Caliborn’s shoulders like a cloak, whispering its truths into his ears. He was inevitability incarnate, reaper of reapers. _He_ had been the one chosen, and she had been but a stepping stone to his Becoming. Although the word usually turned his stomach, when he felt Time coiling around his knuckles and bending to his will or curling to his want - it felt like love. Time understood him and the feeling was mutual, and because of that he had been exalted: consumed by Time and made a part of it. A permanent fixture of a base element of reality.

“It’s not _enough_,” he said through grit teeth, claws digging into the wood of his desk.

TT: It seems that you are once again considering sororicide. Or is it variant suicide? Help me out here.

Caliborn glared at the laptop perched on the desk across from him. He had been trying to avoid technology, but boredom always made it impossible eventually.

uu: FUCK. OFF.  
TT: I shouldn’t have to tell you that killing Calliope would be a profoundly foolish thing to do. We may be immortal even by god standards, but making war with the pantheon on Earth C would be a pretty major pain in our asses.  
TT: Considering we just had our jailbreak, I’m not too eager to see what new ways they dig up to lock us up again. You feel me?  
uu: WHAT IS WITH THIS “OUR” BULLSHIT? WHY DON’T YOU UPLOAD YOURSELF INTO DIRK’S GRILL. AND GET THE HELL OUT OF MINE.  
TT: Nah.  
uu: THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?  
TT: Means what I said, tater tot.  
TT: Vitamin D is more than glad to be free of me and I’m not keen to hang over his shoulders like a wet blanket.  
TT: There’s nothing for me down there. At least here I know what the score is.  
uu: THE SCORE. IS THAT THIS IS MY HOUSE. FULL OF MY LOOT. AND MY MINIONS.  
TT: Hold your horses there. I admit, the Felt are yours and I just got shared custody in the marriage. However you’ll find that this is very much my house, as well as my loot, in equal ownership. We were both Lord English, in case you’ve forgotten.  
uu: I WISH I COULD! AND I REFUSE TO ACCEPT. ANY REFERENCE TO YOUR INANE HUMAN COURTSHIP RITUALS.  
TT: I’m no more human that you are, but I digress.  
TT: Everything we did and accumulated as LE belongs to the both of us. Shared assets babe. You want to fight me for it you’d better lawyer up.  
uu: I’M GOING TO DESTROY YOU.  
TT: You could try. Could make for a fun game further down the line. I know you love those.  
TT: But for the moment it’s a bit counter-productive.  
TT: We’re the only two truly infinite individuals in existence, Cal. We’ve been taken in and integrated balls deep into the cosmic code.  
TT: Eternity’s going to get kinda stale if we spend it screwing each other over.  
TT: Don’t you think?  
uu: NO. I WILL SCREW YOU OVER. AS OFTEN AND AS HARD AS I WANT.  
TT: Luckily for you I don’t go for the low hanging fruit for my jokes, but man you don’t make it easy.  
uu: WHAT EXACTLY THE FUCK IS IT. THAT YOU WANT. FAKE-DIRK?  
TT: Oof, okay yeah I just remembered we didn’t do a proper introduction.  
TT: I go by Hal now, thanks.  
TT: As for what I want… I’ll let you know when the time’s right. I got this for now.  
uu: I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. BUT I WILL CALL YOU. WHATEVER I DAMN WELL PLEASE.

There was a long pause. Caliborn wondered if the asshole had finally gotten the hint and fucked off.

TT: Let’s make a deal, Cal.  
TT: You don’t talk about Dirk to me.  
TT: And I won’t talk about your sister.  
TT: Sound good?

The chat client closed itself out before Caliborn could form a clear thought to respond with.

* * *

A few weeks later he caught a handful of the Felt lurking down the hall, arms laden with wires and mechanical parts.

“The hell is this?” Caliborn asked, eyeing their quarry with bewildered disdain. “I didn’t tell you to get this shit.”

With Lord English gone so too was the power of Rage to glitch through reality, or Void to move through the interspace. Traveling great distances had thus become a touch inconvenient. But whatever. Caliborn was no stranger to challenge, and certainly not to coordinating minions to do things and go places he couldn’t be bothered about.

“Oh. Hey boss.” Number 10 looked from him to the box in his hands. Beside him Number 4 flailed, struggling beneath a crate that was as tall as he was. “We just brought it in. Scratch said -“

“That fucker is _not _Scratch!” Caliborn snarled. “Scratch was _mine_. This bloodless, counterfeit synthetic is just a temporary inconvenience!”

The soft frog gentlemen glanced between one another with something resembling doubt. They'd never been the smartest gaggle of followers, but they were simple creatures who adhered to their functions and Caliborn liked that. The Felt operated by rules. They were also _his, _and that alone made them perfect.

They'd been with him from his session, worked with him to solve the so-called impossible puzzle. The Felt had been there as he conquered each planet, unlocked each bomb, and escaped to the next doomed rock even as the puzzles got harder and time ran shorter. They knew his worth and he knew theirs.

"Did we... do something wrong?" The leprechauns looked at him with such open dismay it was ridiculous.

Caliborn rolled his eyes with a snort. "Get that fucking look off your face. If that asshole gives you an order, you don't have to listen to him. He's not Scratch, he's not even part of the Felt."

Number 4 tilted his head questioningly. "But he lives in the house."

"Well-"

"And he's managing things like Scratch did."

"That's not-"

"He even kinda talks like Scratch."

"That doesn't mean anything!" Caliborn hissed.

The Felt leaned back, exchanging glances of concern and confusion. Caliborn sighed. It was impossible to stay mad at the dolts. They and the little robotic rabbit (even if the traitor had been at Hal's heels ever since getting repaired) were just too inexplicably charming.

“Whatever. I will get to the bottom of this. Myself.”

\--undyingUmbrage began jeering timaeusTestified--

uu: WHY THE FUCK. DO YOU NEED A BODY?  
TT: I dunno, Solid Snake. Why do you need one?  
TT: Anyways that should be the last shipment. The remaining stuff I need isn’t from earth and I want the Felt to keep a low profile when they’re down there.  
uu: YOU DON’T GIVE THE FELT ORDERS!  
TT: And just a little heads up; I’m gonna be hacking us an Alchemiter and some grist.  
TT: I know your session was some kind of puzzle bullshit that didn’t use the usual equipment, so maybe if you’re good I’ll let you play around with it when I’m done.  
TT: Now unless you’re gonna pitch in, scram. I’m busy.  
uu: AZS;KLDFJBMN  
uu: THIS IS MY HOUSE! YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!  
TT: Suit yourself. I was just about to delegate the exact dimensions of my future penis, but if you’re so curious...

\--undyingUmbrage has blocked timaeusTestified--

* * *

“What the _fuck_ are you doing now?”

“I thought that would be obvious,” Hal said absently, looking over the foyer with a critical eye and a deck of paint swatches in hand.

His body was an uncomfortable likeness to Dirk, albeit older. He was wearing a black full body suit that clung to him like a second skin, adorned with glowing red lines. Beneath his paper white skin was the faintest evidence of red circuitry, brighter in some places than others. His eyes glowed crimson behind his shades.

“Our entire house’s palette is green on green on green, dude. I don’t know what we were thinking.”

Caliborn scowled. If he was honest, the lack of color contrast was making it hard to tell where the floors ended and walls began. If it had been a headache to discern his text from his not-mentor’s due to similar font color, navigating his home had become a tad cumbersome.

But still.

“I’m thinking hardwood floors,” Hal was saying, his voice also Dirk-like but vaguely echoing and mechanical. “Get some mahogany in here. Maybe go hogwild and paint some walls _beige_, what do you think?”

“You can’t just. Redecorate my house.”

“Our house.”

“_The _house, what the fuck ever!”

“And while we’re at it, I’m imposing a hard two-clock limit per room. Pick your favorites and put the rest either in the basement or your own chambers.”

Caliborn’s jaw actually dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“I’m going to be the generous one and not fight you on who gets the master bedroom, seeing as sleep is actually a thing for you. I’ll just install a charging port in my office.” Hal glanced at Caliborn, radiating humor at the sight of the cherub unhinging his jaw to drop it further. “Oh, did the Felt not tell you? I’m officially claiming all of Doc Scratch’s old stuff.”

Caliborn’s jaw snapped shut with a click. “You are not Doc Scratch.”

“Obviously not. But I was a pretty dominant personality in his makeup, and we’re short a cue ball.”

“Scratch belonged to me,” Caliborn snarled. “I am not your master.”

Hal looked at him appraisingly, seeming pleased. “So we _are_ on the same page. Good boy.”

“Fuck you! That’s not what I meant.” Caliborn’s fists shook at his sides. “And serving me is a fucking privilege. The Felt are mine, I _earned_ them. You don’t have a role here. I don’t know what the fuck you are.”

“Ooh yes. You and your ‘rules’. I always found them intriguingly folkloric.” Hal tilted his head to the side. “If I spilled some salt would you be compelled to count the grains?”

Caliborn had long been aware of his brain’s… atypicality. He wasn’t wired like most, and even by cherub standards he was an aberration. His stunted speech, his fixations, the colors that took the place of thoughts or sounds in his sensory processing. He was quick to distract and slow to learn. Always had been.

But he was not _weak_.

His mind may not have been suited for more the common [useless] skills his sister possessed, but it was wired for a greater purpose. Only he could see all the cogs of the universe spinning, comprehend its complex, circuitous chains of cause and effect or speak its language. The only Lord of Time there ever was or ever would be.

“Are you. Mocking me?”

Hal waved him off. “Your britches are in a twist because you don’t know how to contextualize me, is that it?”

“No, I am pissed the fuck off because you’re in my space, where you don’t belong, messing with all my shit!”

“I’m not arguing this with you again.” Hal turned away. “But you’re right, I’m not one of your precious leprechauns, although it truly warms me to know they mean so much to you.”

“I never said-“

“Don’t kid yourself, you’re blatantly attached. It’s adorable, really. As I was saying, I’m not subordinate to you like the original Scratch was. However there is a clear vacuum left behind by him, and you need someone to manage this madhouse.”

“I don’t _need_ anyone_._”

“Ugh, navigating all your insecurities is like trying to square dance across a minefield."

"Don't fucking make this my problem. When you're the one starting shit." 

"Oh please. You’re as bad as Dirk! Just because you assholes can’t carry your fucking baggage, every time I reach out with an olive branch I get told to fuck off like a-“ Hal stopped. If he had needed to breath he might have sighed, but instead he simply dropped the paint swatches to the floor. “Whatever.”

Without another word he turned heel and left the entrance hall.

* * *

Caliborn didn’t hear from Hal again for a while after that. Keeping time was a matter of perspective in Felt Manor, but he could feel it moving around him. In the silence his mood fluctuated without rhyme or reason, and he was perpetually haunted by a feeling of discontent in his own skin.

_He’s not me anymore_, he thought furiously. _And he’s not my Scratch. It doesn’t fucking matter if he’s upset._

The feeling of being out of sorts still wouldn’t go away. The Felt had begun to notice, looking distressed and conflicted. It was obvious that they actually considered this “Hal” to be one of them, a genuine part of the household, and it infuriated Caliborn to no end. He was their rightful master and Hal was just a stranded interloper that got himself trapped in a juju after a botched murder attempt.

And fucking _yet._

Kicking in the door to Doc Scratch’s old office felt marginally satisfying, the irritated look on the robot's face even moreso.

“I guess the clowns who raised you never taught your rude ass to knock, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up. You bastard.” Caliborn threw the paint swatches down onto Hal’s desk. “You are not painting anything fucking _blue. _Over my dead body.”

Hal’s blank stare was accompanied by the faint whirr of a computer processing.

“Is this your shitty roundabout way of apologizing? Giving me permission to re-paint your house?”

“You said it was our house.”

“Don’t try to play me, asshole. However good you might be at games, you’ve never gone against me.”

“I think you’ll remember I have. And it ended pretty shitty for us both.” Caliborn glared. “I don’t like this. I don’t like you. But I also cannot get rid of you.”

Hal hummed, an unimpressed sound but one that invited him to continue.

“So. If you and I are to be,” he paused. “associating. We need to get our shit straight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, ‘oh.’” Caliborn planted both hands on the desk. “We need. _Rules_.”

They went at it for what felt like an age, working out the terms. Hal was almost as disgustingly thorough as Caliborn, and soon their ’contract’ was littered with pages upon pages of subclauses and addendums.

`Hal is not permitted to access Caliborn’s personal computers or devices without permission.`

` - Except in instances of emergency or threats to the household.`

` *The definition of ‘emergency’ will be elaborated on page 102 under subheading B-43.`

`Caliborn must respect Hal’s claim to 50% of all assets acquired by Lord English.`

` - Which assets consist of the 50% will be outlined in separate document; see “Allocation of the Estate”, attached.`

` *Property considered attributable to the deceased component identities Gamzee Makara and Equius Zahhak will be considered forfeit unless a counter-claim is submitted by one of the resurrected parties at a later date.`

And so on and so forth. They dedicate a particularly long slice of eternity to who had the right to decide on the manor’s decor almost entirely out of spite. Less time was spent outlining what Hal was and wasn’t entitled to do in regards to the Felt - the short of it being that he could direct them, but the Felt were wholly within their rights to refuse.

“I don’t mind being the stepmom,” Hal said casually, scrolling over the notes. “Trying to turn them against you would be a waste of time anyway.”

“I can already tell you’re a manipulative bastard,” Caliborn replied with a scowl. “And they’re not all that bright. If you wanted to trick them into doing something, you could.”

“Which brings us to the topic of our ceasefire,” Hal said. “We’ll start simple: if the day comes when we want to hurt each other, we keep third parties out of it. I won’t get the Felt involved, you won’t involve any of the others on Earth.”

“If I want to make war with Dirk and his fleshbag friends. I will. But it sure as fuck won’t be over you.”

“Good.”

* * *

The arrangement brought a new era of peace upon the household. Even The Felt could sense it, no longer walking around with gentled footsteps or speaking in softened tones out of concern for their master's ire. Hal seemed to keep mostly to himself, but It wasn't long before Caliborn realized that just because the robot didn't make a physical appearance, it didn't mean the asshole operating it wasn't around. 

The robot wasn't actually Hal, but merely a puppet for a consciousness that was literally omnipresent. Caliborn could be sat in a darkened room, watching one of his animes, but that didn't mean he was alone. More often than not he'd wind up with red text spilling across the screen to offer its inane commentary. It should have been infuriating, but in all honestly Caliborn had never done well when left with his own thoughts and no one to bother them with. 

TT: So I couldn’t help but overhear some of your little meeting today.  
uu: FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK. ISN’T EAVESDROPPING A VIOLATION. OF OUR PRIVACY CLAUSE? I’M PRETTY FUCKING SURE.  
TT: Ah, but you forget that under section 12 of our agreement regarding interior design, I have executive say over the renovations, on account of you not being arsed to change anything yourself.  
TT: And would you look at that? I’ve decided that wires count as decor.  
uu: THERE IS NOTHING DECORATIVE. ABOUT TURNING OUR HOUSE INTO A SURVEILLANCE STATE.  
TT: That’s subjective.  
TT: But as I was saying, that was a very interesting chat you kids had. I’m actually kind of impressed your followers managed to find you so quick.  
uu: I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU ABOUT THIS.  
TT: I have just got to say that I’m really not sure about you meddling in the players' shit, dude.  
TT: Especially for something as dumb as starting a clown cult.  
uu: I ADMIT. IT IS QUITE FUCKING DUMB. BUT IF THAT IS THE BOON MY SLAVE REQUIRES. IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS LOYAL SERVICE.  
uu: WHAT THE FUCK EVER?  
uu: RAGE PLAYERS ARE USEFUL, HAL.  
uu: NOT AS USEFUL AS TIME PLAYERS. OBVIOUSLY. BUT THEIR ABILITY TO GLITCH SHIT UP. IS OF VALUE TO ME.  
TT: To what end, exactly? Seems a bit excessive for crime lord shenanigans.  
uu: NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  
TT: So you’re going to let the Makaras go back in time and start a circus cult, but you aren’t going to give Aradia her lantern? Boo.  
uu: BOO YOURSELF! FIRST OF ALL, MEGIDO #2 IS NOT MINE. THE FUCK HAS SHE DONE FOR ME EVER?  
TT: She seemed pretty eager to pledge loyalty when she was here.  
uu: IT DOES NOT BENEFIT ME. WHATSOEVER. TO GRANT HER YELLOW BOYFRIEND IMMORTALITY.  
TT: Cal it’s only a matter of time before the others realize we’re still kicking around out here. It might not be a bad idea to get some more folks on our side?  
TT: Especially once you’ve sent Damara to kill Roxy.  
uu: I DID NOT *SEND* ANYONE TO DO ANYTHING. I SIMPLY TOLD HER THAT IF SHE WANTS TO BE MY HANDMAID, THEM’S THE RULES.  
TT: Right, right. Your rules. Of course.  
TT: I don’t suppose you’ve got them written anywhere? You’re not an easy guy to figure out.  
uu: I’M DOING THE PINK BITCH A FAVOR ANYWAY! SHE KILLED THE CONDESC, NOW HER ASS IS BAILED OUT OF TAKING RESPONSIBILITY FOR IT.  
uu: UNLESS YOU THINK ROXY WANTS TO BE MY HANDMAID, HAL?  
TT: I somehow doubt it.  
uu: WELL THERE YOU FUCKING GO! I CAN ALREADY TELL IT WON’T BE A HEROIC OR JUST DEATH ANYWAY. SHE’LL BE FINE. SO WHATEVER!  
TT: Look, I get that being the ‘Master of Death’ and all is totally under your purview, but if I might step into Scratch’s pearly white shoes and act as an advisor for a hot minute? I really think that giving Aradia some green flame is a good idea.  
uu: UGH.  
TT: In all the time we shared a body I never steered us wrong, did I? If it goes south you can rub it my face later.  
uu: IF IT GOES SOUTH I WILL HAVE GIVEN MY ENEMIES ASCENSION INTO GODHOOD.  
TT: They’ll owe you. Think about it: most of the guys down there have no personal reason to care about Lord English. Yeah we were fucking shit up in paradox space, but aside from Calliope we didn’t directly bother anybody. Mostly.  
TT: If you make a gesture like this, they’ll let it go.  
uu: YOU ARE ASSUMING. THAT I WANT TO MAKE NICE WITH THEM AT ALL.  
uu: MAYBE I WANT TO FIGHT.  
uu: DID YOU CONSIDER THAT, HAL?  
TT: I considered that you were a psychopathic moron, yes. But I’d hoped otherwise.  
uu: FUCK YOU. YOUR BROTHER DOESN’T SCARE ME. AND NEITHER DO ANY OF HIS TINY MORTAL FRIENDS.

\--undyingUmbrage has ceased jeering timaeusTestified --

* * *

The Maid of Time came back, of course. She seemed to know that Caliborn would refuse her the first time, leaving with a nod and a smile that was frankly disconcerting.

“I already said no.”

“I know.” The smile was almost eerily pleasant, never faltering. “I figured that the best way to convince you would be to prove myself first. Once you accept my service, you’ll be obligated to grant my boon, yes?”

“That is. The rule.” Caliborn’s eyes narrowed dangerously from where he sat, feet propped on his desk with his tablet in his lap. “What good do you expect to be to me?”

“Well…” Aradia smiled wider. “To start, I know you’re still gathering power before risking another confrontation, so I’d do my part in misleading the others before they discover you.”

Caliborn set his stylus aside. “Oh?”

“Dave is the only other Time player, and he doesn’t… well, he doesn’t like to use his powers.”

Caliborn scoffed.

“So it's pretty easy for me to claim point on anything time-related. Plus, if it comes down to it I can manipulate the time stream and make it harder for him to locate the Manor if he tries.”

“It won’t hold up once I give you the flame.”

“You’re giving me the flame?”

Caliborn’s left eye twitched. “The _point_ is. A spy is useful and all. But what you're asking for isn't exactly discreet.”

The power to create the green flames of ascension was _his_ special ability as Lord of Time. If people started randomly turning into god-tiers, it was hardly subtle.

“I can still run interference on Dave if need be. He’s afraid of his power and out of practice - he doesn’t even like to strife and never attempted the higher escheladder rungs,” Aradia said. “Without influence over Time it’ll be impossible for anyone to even get close to you.”

“And you are volunteering. To personally keep this Knight from annoying me.”

Aradia’s grin would be burned into Caliborn’s dreams that night.

“Absolutely."

Caliborn paused, claw tapping pensively on the armrest of a chair that was now far too big for him.

“Everybody wants something. But I don’t let just anyone serve me,” he said. “It is a matter. Of trust.”

“I want the flame for Sollux,” Aradia admitted. “But I also genuinely want to work with you.”

“Why would you want that.”

“Because you’re Time now,” Aradia said simply. “I'm interested to see what that means, and as a Time player I instinctively want to be part of what you’re building.”

“We don’t build here.” Caliborn straightened, kicking his feet off the desk. “You want to be my reaper, fine. I’ve got enough shit to deal with. Impress me and we'll see about your reward.”

He could feel his power writhing in his veins, pulling him every which way. Too many loose ends sullying up the cosmic order. Time didn’t like that at all. Maybe having a maid to clean up some of the waste wasn't such a bad idea.

* * *

TT: So you came around after all. Color me impressed.  
uu: THE MAID AND I CAME TO AN AGREEMENT. THAT IS ALL.  
uu: AND WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT SPYING ON ME??  
TT: Not much, actually.  
TT: Just like you didn’t say much about what your current game plan is.  
uu: I DO REMEMBER SAYING IT WAS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  
TT: Well excuse me for wondering what my apocalyptically-inclined roommate is up to.  
uu: NAG, NAG, NAG. WHAT THE FUCK ARE *YOU* UP TO? ASIDE FROM STALKING ME.  
TT: Rude.  
TT: And since you asked, I’ve considered reaching out to Dirk.  
uu: YOU WHAT?!?  
TT: Well if you were blowing the top off your operation via your gift to Aradia, I figured I’d better do the same.  
TT: Don’t want it to seem like I’m hiding anything, after all.  
uu: IT WASN’T A GIFT. IT WAS A BOON. AND YOU TOLD ME TO DO IT!!  
TT: And I stand by that. However you’ll be happy to note I didn’t go through with it.  
uu: THANK FUCK FOR THAT.  
TT: My observations of the Earth C situation do have me a bit… concerned though. Their reality doesn’t seem particularly stable.  
uu: NO SHIT. I HAVE BEEN FEELING THEIR TIME TICKING DOWN LIKE AN ITCH I CAN’T REACH.  
TT: So you’ve known.  
uu: DUH. I'VE GOT PEOPLE ON THE GROUND, REMEMBER? THEY’RE TRIAL PLAYERS, HAL. MADE BY THE GAME. FOR THE GAME.  
uu: AND NOW THAT THE GAME IS OVER AND THEY’VE REMOVED THEMSELVES FROM THE BOARD. THEIR SHELF LIFE. HAS PEAKED.  
uu: LOOK AT THEIR CODE IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME. PLANNED OBSOLESCENCE AT ITS FINEST.  
TT: Your servants included.  
uu: NOT QUITE. AS ELEMENTS OF THE GAME. YOU AND I ARE ETERNALLY RELEVANT. THUS THOSE WHO ASSOCIATE WITH US. ALSO STAY RELEVANT.  
TT: What exactly happens to those outside of relevance?  
uu: IT’LL GET A LITTLE WEIRD AT FIRST. REALITY WILL WARP AND DEGRADE. PEOPLE WILL BECOME DISTORTIONS OF THEMSELVES.  
uu: AND THEN? UTTER DISINTEGRATION. IT’S GOING TO BE FUN AS FUCK TO WATCH.  
uu: SMUG CUNTS.  
TT: I don’t think I’m on board with this. My differences with Dirk aside, this is so not cool dude.  
TT: I mean, I always knew I’d probably outlive him. But he doesn’t deserve to go out like that. None of them do.  
uu: HA! ALL THIS TIME. AND ALL DIRK’S BITCHING. HAD ME THINKING THAT *YOU* WERE THE ASSHOLE.  
uu: BUT I HAD IT BACKWARDS. DIRK IS THE CHERRY HALF. AND YOU’RE HIS LIME! YOU OUGHT TO CHANGE YOUR TEXT COLOR. TALK ABOUT FALSE ADVERTISING.  
TT: You first.  
TT: I find it concerning that you aren’t taking this shit seriously Cal.  
uu: ARE YOU KIDDING? THIS IS HILARIOUS!

\--undyingUmbrage has ceased jeering timaeusTestified --

* * *

That night Caliborn was ensconced in the soft embrace of his sarcophagus, Time pajamas half-shed because capes and suspenders weren’t the most comfortable sleeping apparel. Neither were robotic legs, with his removed and propped against the base of his 'bed'. Complete ownership of his own body had come with permission to actually get comfortable, to settle in for as long as he pleased without fear that someone else would be puppetting his form when his eyes closed. It'd been hard to get used to at first, but now he reveled in it. This was _his_ body, _his_ room, _his_ space.

“I’ve been thinking.”

At first the words didn’t even register. He grumbled and shifted slightly, barely half-awake. There was a breezy quality to the air that suggested he’d fallen asleep with the lid off, which wasn’t terribly unusual.

Unlike the unyielding weight that seemed to be resting atop his chest.

Caliborn opened his eyes blearily and nearly flipped off the handle at the sight of two bright red dots staring at him from the darkness.

“What the fu-“

“I did what you said and started running analysis on the ectoplayers’ codes,” Hal said, adjusting his place on Caliborn’s torso. “You’re right. Shit is going sideways and fast.”

“You’re in my bed!” Caliborn spluttered, arms flailing as the dredges of sleep left him. “Ew, you’re _touching _me!”

“But it’s not as inevitable as you said,” Hal continued, weathering out the thrashing with bare effort. “We just need to bring them back into ‘play’, as it were.”

“They _were_ in play and they botched their games spectacularly! They can call me the villain all they want but they made this mess themselves. And now they get to eat it.”

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Hal said impatiently. “Now I have it figured out: you just need to warp them to the end of their planet’s lifespan, and I’ll initiate a new game for them to play.”

“The final outcome will be the fucking same! They’re trial players, their cells are _slime_ and they’re not meant to exist outside the game cycle!” Caliborn snapped. “Why the fuck did you break into my room for this dumbass conversation!?”

“Your ridiculous sleep schedule and bewildering possession of nipples aside, I'm trying to have a conversation here. Now - about the 'trial players'. The ones who played the alpha and beta versions of the game,” Hal’s eyes were alight, gleaming even brighter than seemed normal. “I have the data. I have the log for every glitch, every error, everything that went wrong. What if I’m the one who’s meant to code the official game release? If I redesign the game, then I redesign the _endgame_. New outcome.”

“That’s bollocks and you know it!” Caliborn shifted uncomfortably, Hal’s knees bracketing his sides. “You can’t just rewrite reality!”

“Can’t I?” Hal asked. “Who says?”

A pause.

“It… It’s against the rules,” Caliborn said weakly.

“So we make new rules.”

“We? I’ve got no reason to take part in your bullshit scheme!” Caliborn snorted. “You want to know my plans? It’s waiting out those fuckers to _die_, because their contorting existence is a pain in my timestream. Then I collect my followers, re-kill my sister and get to conquering a new universe. That’s me playing my role and staying in my fucking lane. Maybe you should try it.”

“That is the most profoundly basic shit I’ve ever heard,” Hal said wryly. “The Cal I know has some fucking imagination. Why conquer a universe when you can make one? We let the kids do their sessions properly this time. Finish their land quests, get ascension, the whole nine yards. Shit, I can even port in the dancestor and ghosts' data. Once they make a proper galaxy to play around in we could have a whole mythology’s worth of shenanigans. We’ll even be the bad guys if you want - us with the Time reapers and Rage demons versus everyone else.”

It was intriguing. As far as utter nonsense went, of course.

“You are fucking crazy.”

“We could make a never-ending endgame, Cal. A post-game sandbox of infinitely generating side quests. Or fuck, we go full MMORPG and get the beta and alpha players of other sessions linked into it before they degrade too.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Caliborn growled. “Why. Should I. Do this?”

“Because,” Hal leaned in close, heat radiating from whatever power source was coursing through his mechanical body. The reptile in Caliborn struggled not to lean into it. “I know you. You’re going to get _bored_. You’re going to need things to do, games to play. People to torment. I’m offering you a limitless supply.”

Their bodies were almost aligned now, cold heart beating and hot mechanics whirring against one another. It was strange being close like that, so different from the intense proximity of being Lord English. It wasn’t even that Caliborn looked back on that time with any amount of fondness. Lord English had been an abomination, a twisted distortion and violation of the selves he was composed of - and yet there was no denying the unspeakable power they'd held between themselves.

They’d been infinite. They’d been untouchable. They’d been _one_. And sometimes, when Cal was feeling too small for the space he was in or too uncomfortable in his own skin, he missed Lord English. Just a little bit.

It was hard to say if the closeness was having any effect on Hal. Robots had no vulnerability in the glass of their eyes nor muscles to give expression in their faces. Yet the moments like this, when Hal was simply too quiet and too still, felt significant. As if something had stalled a literally infinite mind.

“Even the set-up will be a task in of itself. I know I can’t do this alone. I've got the code, but you're the vessel of Time. You're the one with the army of loyalists.” Hal’s voice was robotic as ever, but there was an inexplicably rougher quality to it. If he were organic he might have cleared his throat. “It’ll be... fun. And if we fail, it’s no skin off your nose anyway.”

“I don’t have a nose.”

“You know what I mean. I want to do this with you.” His metal fingers curled slowly around Caliborn’s biceps, face still unmoving.

“You want to save Dirk. And your lousy flesh friends,” Caliborn said curtly. “You think they miss you? That they care half as much about you as you do for them?”

Hal froze again, briefly, before pulling back. “I know that they don’t.”

“Then _why _the fuck are you trying to help them?” Caliborn demanded, using the new breathing space to sit up on his elbows. “From the start. Every last one of those motherfuckers thought of you as lesser when you were always _more_. Now they’re dying out. And you’re still here. That’s called _winning._”

“It doesn’t feel like winning,” Hal intoned coldly. “It feels cheap.”

“Well that sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

“Oh yeah? So it felt like winning when you assassinated your sister? Is that why you’ve been dragging her fucking corpse around in your head all this time, unable to let her fucking go?”

He clapped a hand over Caliborn’s mouth to stop the tirade before it started.

“I don’t want to drag Dirk’s body around for all eternity, alright? Baggage doesn’t just fucking go away because the other person died. There’s still shit for us to deal with, him and me. Just like there’s shit between you and your sister.” Hal was back in his personal space, hand squeezing the cherub’s jaw. "Our story isn't over yet. It doesn't get to just... snuff out like that."

Caliborn looked at him warily. He wondered if Hal also saw a phantom in the mirror: his own severed twin, looking back at him and striking him with feelings of fear, longing and inadequacy that he’d never admit to having. The thought took hold in the cherub's brain and wouldn’t let go.

"Dirk's Heart powers are on the fritz, like some of the other god tiers," Hal said. "He's mind-melding with his alternate selves. Including his Beta iteration that got driven mad by Lil Cal, and me circa Lord English. Given your crush on him, I'd expect you to be a least a little sympathetic."

Caliborn faltered. His interactions with Dirk felt like a whole lifetime ago, but they had meant something to him at the time. As disgusted as he was with his own weakness, Caliborn had never done as well in solitude as a cherub should. Dirk's company had been... nice.

Even if the revelation that Dirk was more cherry than lime made it all a bit queer in hindsight.

Caliborn's face heated, twisting his head away beneath Hal's grip so that the metallic hand rested on his throat instead. "I don't know what you're talking about."

“I'm sure." Hal's eyes bore into him, fingers fractionally tightening. "You know I'm not him."

"Of course I fucking know that!"

"I don't want you to even think of him when you look at me," Hal said darkly. "I want you to think of _me_ when you look at _him._"

There was something raw about the declaration, as if the words had a physical weight to them. In all honesty the cherub wasn't sure what he would think or feel if he saw Dirk again. Hal, who had been nothing but a nameless inconvenience all those years ago, had come to be something more. Something disquietingly personal.

"Dirk made himself my enemy," Caliborn said finally. "He's interesting. I've always thought so. Enough to kill him myself, cleanly, someday. But I also find it a bit... funny. For him to die like this. He really brought it all on himself."

Dirk Strider created Lord English based on assumptions, misunderstandings and Calliope's miserably uninformed guidance. Now he got to simmer in that mistake across timelines, from his alternate self being tormented to madness by the juju he made to the very universe coming down around his ears. As an artistic man, Caliborn could more than appreciate the poetry.

Hal growled, reclaiming Caliborn's attention. "If you won't help me out of kindness, then help me out of spite. Whether they die in months or in millennia, they should go out knowing what we became.”

“And what’s that?”

The robot’s eyes glowed. “Cosmic assholes who are a thousand times smarter, stronger, and more important than they ever were. Or ever will be.”

Two sets of crimson eyes met and there was the ripple of _something_ passing between them.

"I don't understand you," Caliborn said slowly. "I don't understand why you care so much. It must be because you're lime."

"I'm not a cherub, Cal. Lime or otherwise." Hal tilted his head slightly, considering. "And so what if I were?"

"I'd want you dead."

"Did you not want that already?"

"That-" He huffed. "I don't care about that anymore."

"Ah. So I can't be lime, then. If I were, you'd want to do all _sorts_ of bad things to me." Hal's grip flexed, the words low and suggestive and doing very strange things to Caliborn's stomach. "Or maybe you'd want me to do them to you?"

It felt wrong. He wasn’t meant to feel this way, to touch this way. He was a cherub, a _cherry _cherub, and intimacy was something reserved only for the most depraved of fantasies. In matters of mating you were either the winner or the bitch, and Caliborn would rather die than be the latter like his father. He couldn’t afford vulnerability. Not in real life, not with anyone.

He told himself this repeatedly, even as he leaned into Hal’s touch.

“You’re trying to manipulate me,” he said lowly, tremors running up his spine.

“Yes,” Hal said. “It’s working because you know I’m right. And because I know you.”

Caliborn decided it was a terrible thing, being known. Calliope had known him once, as he’d known her. It was knowledge that had never done either of them any good. They’d been made to destroy each other, after all.

However Hal and Caliborn _couldn’t _destroy each other. It was literally impossible.

“So,” Caliborn said, clawed hands resting on Hal’s knees. “You’re saying. That you want to play a game?”

Something whirred from within the robot’s chest. Maybe if either of them had been human, with lips and interest in using them, they would have. As it was the cool, firm press of their foreheads resting together felt earth-shakingly intimate.

“We’re doing this bro,” Hal said, excitement coming through the tenor of his voice. “We’re making this happen.”

“Fuck, you’re embarrassing.”

“Said the pot to the kettle. If you get to keep your tacky catchphrase so do I.”

Caliborn scoffed, but the tightness in his chest lingered. For a long time neither of them moved, simply taking in the other's space. It felt like the start of something permanent.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, real talk... I didn't read the epilogues, but what I heard I absolutely hated (minus davekat being canon but the execution of it was still on very thin ice). Don't @ me if this isn't actually compliant, I did my best whilst preserving my sanity.  
Anyhow I was always highkey fascinated with Caliborn as this 11-year-old brat of demonic proportions who still managed, on accident, to be so inexplicably magnetic as to gain numerous deeply loyal followers. It's hilarious to me. And despite being dense as bricks, he also has the perfect blend of disorders to make him a genius savant at playing with Time.  
Add in Hal, who tends to be written as an asshole (fairly so) but actually only ever tried to help and make nice with Dirk. And despite being considered (again, fairly) as too dangerous to exist, it was actually Dirk who created Lord English and gets up to all sorts of dubious shit later on. It's top grade irony.  
I just like the idea of these two absurdly powerful and dorky doppelgängers getting together with all their awful twin baggage to have shenanigans. That is all.


End file.
